


Burrito

by noahbadpuns



Category: Monster Prom (Visual Novel)
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahbadpuns/pseuds/noahbadpuns
Summary: All Brian wanted was a good lunch. And now he's here. Not in his kitchen. He's already tired of this interdimensional bullshit.





	Burrito

Brian likes food. It keeps him nourished, full, and on top of his game. Without food, he might actually start hallucinating a person narrating his adventures again. With food, he could avoid adventure, go watch some bullshit television show, and get his homework done like a responsible student. A rarer type of student at Spooky High after his last week there. Already got most of his homework done anyway.

Three essays about what he wants to accomplish in his freshman year. Copied, pasted, and used a thesaurus. It was a boring monologue since all his actual interests blanked out on him, and he finished after ten minutes.

Make new friends.

Accidently create a badass weapon.

Eradicate the stereotype that persists with zombies.

Not get his arms ripped off by that weird guy that kept staring at him and counting off numbers.

All good things.

Yet, he typed up not failing the grade and figuring out how to hack into the school’s grading system. Sarcasm or not, he gave the topic its own paragraph.  

He pulls out the rotting skin between his teeth and stares at the television screen. _Chopped or be Chopped_ was playing out for the tenth episode in a row. A series of kids raced to the pantries, threw together meals he can’t even pretend to pronounce, and made adults everywhere shutter at their burnt creations. Been watching since he was a kid. Started two kitchen fires, created one mutated ant, and almost poisoned his moms. They started reading everything they put away after that. So, technically not his fault that they were too busy flirting with each other to comprehend the difference between broth and actual poison.

Nonetheless, he’d rather be back home with their poison and purple eggs than anywhere near his own kitchen. Sure, he still buys shit, but it’s just sitting there. Housing damn near everything but the food  _on the fucking label_.

Oh, the first time he thought it was just a mistake. Had a sweets craving and bought shit for cupcakes.

The frosting had two hands in it that presented him an eye.

“ _Nos tibi postremum nostri conspectu. Nobis et pro, te adducet de fine luce._ ” The hands muttered and whined, creating static in his ears.

Closed that shit and tossed it in the trash. Made muffins instead. Not as fun, but he filled them with chocolate. He’d gotten eyeball-shaped sprinkles, but kind of just put those in the back of his pantry.

Only one, one. Just don’t buy from that company again, he said, not like that’s going to be  _normal_.

The one fucking thing in his life that’s gotta be normal is this  _shit_ , though.

One month it’s hands in the frosting. Next, it’s a donkey wondering where’s its mother went talking in backward cryptics in a beer bottle. A spirit yelling about candles in candy. A fungus with two fingers for teeth in a container of meat. Two siblings trapped in separate bottles of ketchup and mustard cursed to never be together.

It kept going and _going_ to the point he’s certain he knows more Latin than a witch and more takeout numbers than a college student. _Mummy’s Mum, Wendigo Wings, Cyclops and Nobody,_ and even _Seaside’s_ _Victims_ had contact on his phone. And only the desperate actually enter _Victims_ because no one’s a hundred percent sure if it means seafood or airpeople meat. Some people don’t even care.

But now? Now it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and Brian’s about to say _fuck it_. Everything these little kids make looks amazing, and he just wants something simple. Something he can make right fucking now.

_Because he spent the week in class or in the library, so he’s pretty smart and loaded at the moment. Not enough time skipping, though, so it’s not a bold choice._

...And there’s the narration. Not as sarcastic as always. No air of “why the actual living fuck” floating around.

He gets up, stretches, and changes the channel to a bunch of cartoons. Not too distracting, so he has less chance of cutting off a finger.

Yet that still feels like it’s on a lower priority.

He closes the head popping game on his phone and slides into his recipe app. Can’t delete it after a hundred or so bookmarks; plus it was nice to see other’s creations. He even recognized one of his classmates, Amira Red.

_Itshot_inhere_ made the spiciest foods and took pictures of pitchers of peppers. She even posted a video of her eating one of the hottest peppers out there, a dead demon’s dick. Came from the third circle of Hell from a pissed off servant. 

No one does anything but challenges with it.

Now he wants spicy. He scrolls through recipes and settles on a five star one.

A burrito. Thirteen different ingredients that he’s going to shrink down until he can do it in three dishes. Spicy. Simple.

He reaches into the drawer in front of him and pulls out a big-ass knife.

“Don’t try any shit.” It’s a worthless threat, but he pokes the fridge regardless before opening it.

Day old takeout greets him. _Just eat me,_ it whispers, _no work and no weird shit. Just a microwave and I’m yours!_  It squeals, promises, and laughs when he pushes past it.

“Be strong.” He mutters and grabs the ingredients from the fridge and freezer. One move done, he shuts the door and sighs. Get the pan, grab some oil, make the food, and then rejoice that this fucking curse or shit is over and done with.

_Or, or the weird shit keeps happening because his success would be as fucking anti-climatic as a faked orgasm._

Sometimes he just wants to stab the narrator, but it’s a figment of his hallucinations that’s physically unable to be stabbed. That probably wouldn’t stop any of his classmates, though.

Damn, he’s really got to start making friends. Maybe he’ll skip more, hang out around the tree, or go see theater kids yell at each other for an hour about costume expenses.

His first period had some interesting monsters in it. Besides the shapeshifting teacher that kept changing between a lamp and television, there were a few zombies, ghosts, merpeople, a shadow being, a sewn together reanimated corpse girl, and a hot-head. And the corpse girl, Vicky, had been ecstatic upon hearing all their last names.

Brian Green. Amira Red. Vicky Blue. Oz Yellow. It sent her into giggles and started a long line of puns and jokes.

He almost laughed at a few of them.

He peels his onions, pushing the pan onto the oven, and smells the familiar scent. If his tear ducts hadn’t been removed, he might actually cry.

Finely chopped, the recipe said.

He remembers his mom finely chopping carrots to practice and handing the knife to him. He cut open his finger but didn’t notice until she pointed it out. And she only noticed because his mama squeaked at the sight of blood. A simple witch that married a zombie, she hated trying to understand the dead nerves and apathetic reactions. But she sighed, grabbed a sewing kit, and watched the two of them continue their cooking lesson.

Why’d he moved? They both offered to move closer to Spooky High, but he just didn’t want them to. They still had his sister, Cere, to send to school. Sure, that’s a couple of years away, but still. Plus, he needed to figure out life alone.

The apartment felt right for him. One bedroom with a giant bed he could fall into. A bathroom with a showerhead above his head. A neighbor that knocked on his door to warn him about the loud sex she was going to have. It even had a nice view of trees and a park.

He looks down at the onion and the small cut on the tip of his finger. Still can’t get it right, huh? Smirking, he looks up for his sewing kit behind the couch and stares.

Because that’s not his couch. That is not a cartoon on his television. That’s not even his television. Everything’s more pink, white, and blue. The air smells like raisins and bees.

“What the fuck...” He sets down his knife with a tight grip on the handle.

“Oh my love, you didn’t need to stop.” A voice comes from behind him.

This, this isn’t some fucking demons or some bullshit coming out of a can of peas.

“What’s wrong, my love, too shocked to speak?” The voice sounds confident.

This is some next level weird shit.

“In truth, I didn’t think it would be that easy to get one of you here, my dear.” There’s a hand reaching pass him. A blue one.

Brian decides to say _fuck it_ again and stabs whoever’s behind him because he’d rather eat takeout for the rest of his life than deal with whatever the fuck this is.


End file.
